his voice so hoarse, he clears his throat and starts again. “I mean, I guess—well, I guess I don’t get it.”

He squints, slowly taking him in. “For starters, you’re not all pasty white and weird looking. In fact, you’re pretty much the opposite, and ever since I’ve known you, you’ve been rockin’ a tan. Not to mention, in case you haven’t noticed, it’s daylight. Like, ninety-five degrees’ worth of daylight. So, excuse me for saying so, but in light of all that, what you just said really doesn’t make any sense.”

Damen tilts his head, wearing an expression that’s far more confused than Miles’s. Taking a moment to add it all up, before he throws his head back, allowing great peals of laughter to spill forth, until he finally slows down enough to shake his head and say, “I’m not amythicalimmortal, Miles, I’m a realimmortal.

The kind without the burden of fangs, sun-avoiding, or that gawd-awful blood-sucking.” He shakes his head again, musing under his breath at the idea of it, remembering how I once assumed the same thing.

“Basically, it’s just me and my trusty bottle of elixir here—” He holds up his drink, swinging it back and forth as Miles watches, transfixed by the sight of it. The way that much sought-after substance, the one mankind has searched for forever, the one Damen’s parents were murdered for, glows and glints in the bright afternoon sun. “Believe me, this is really all it takes to keep me going for, well, for eternity.”

They sit in silence. Miles scrutinizing Damen, looking for giveaways, nervoustics, self-aggrandizement, gaping holes in the story, or any other telltale sign of a person who’s lying, while Damen just waits.

Allowing Miles all the time he needs to get accustomed to the idea, to settle in with it, to warm up to a new possibility he never really considered before.

And when Miles’s mouth begins to open, about to askhow,Damen just nods, answering the unspoken question when he says, “My father was an alchemist back in a time when it was not so uncommon to experiment with such things.”

“And what time was that, exactly?” Miles asks, having found his voice again, obviously not believing it really could’ve been as long as Damen claims.

“Six hundred and some odd years ago—give or take.” Damen shrugs, casting it off as though the beginnings hold very little meaning to him.

But I know differently.

I know just how much he prizes that time with his family, the memories they shared before they were so cruelly stolen.

I also know just how painful it is for him to admit it. How he prefers to shrug it off, to pretend he can barely remember it.

“It was during the Italian Renaissance,” he adds, not missing a beat.

Their gaze continues to hold, and even though he doesn’t show it, bears absolutely no visible signs of it whatsoever—I know it kills Damen to have to admit it.

His most well guarded secret, the one he’d managed to hold on to for six solid centuries, now spilling out like water from a busted pipe.

Miles nods, nods without flinching. Forfeiting his milkshake to a curious seagull, pushing it away as he says, “I’m not even sure what to say at this point, except maybe—thank you.”

Their gaze meets.

“Thank you for not lying. For not trying to cover it up and pretend that those portraits were some kind of distant relative or weird kind of coincidence. Thank you for telling the truth. As unbelievable and strange as it may be…”

“Youknew ?”

I let go of his hand, moving so quickly it takes a moment for him to realize he’s no longer held hostage by me.

He flinches and pulls away, flexing his fingers as he twists his wrist back and forth, doing whatever it takes to get the blood flow back to normal again.

“Jeez, Ever,intrude much ?” He shakes his head and paces the store. Angrily slaloming through the bookshelves, the angel displays, the CD racks, before starting the course all over again. Needing a moment to forgive me, to blow off a good bit of steam, before he’s ready to even look at me again.

Tapping his thumb over the spines of a long row of books as he finally sighs and says, “I mean, it’s one thing toknow you’re capable of reading minds, it’s quite another to have youactually get in there and probe aroundwithout my consent .” The words followed by a string of others he mumbles under his breath.

“I’m sorry,” I say, knowing I owe him much more than that, but still, it’s a start. “Really. I…I took a vow to never do that. And for the most part, I’ve kept it. But sometimes…well, sometimes the situation’s so urgent it can’t be ignored.”

“So you’ve done it before? Is that what you’re saying?” He turns, his eyes narrowed, mouth grim, fingers fidgeting at his side. Assuming the worst, that I’ve made myself at home in his brain on more occasions than I can count. And even though it’s nothing quite as bad as all that, and even though I’d really prefer not to have to cop to any of it, I also know that if I have any hope of regaining his trust, I have to start here.

I take a deep breath, keeping my gaze level on his. “Yes. A few times in the past, I have dropped in completely unannounced and without your consent, and I’m really and truly sorry about that. I know what an invasion that must feel like to you.”

He rolls his eyes and shows me his back. Mumbling in a way intended to make me cringe—and it does.

Though it’s not like I blame him. Not in the least. I’ve invaded his privacy, there’s no doubt about that. I just hope he can learn to forgive me.